


When it Rains in my Heart

by Aragarna



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:06:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aragarna/pseuds/Aragarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Peter could not hold back his tears, and one time he didn’t really bother trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When it Rains in my Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for the lovely [](http://anodyneer.livejournal.com/profile)[**anodyneer**](http://anodyneer.livejournal.com/). Happy Birthday my friend! You told me once you had a soft spot for Peter crying and being emotional. I hope you'll like it. :-) Many thanks to [](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/)**elrhiarhodan** for the beta. Title is inspired by a quote from Paul Verlaine that I love. _Il pleure dans mon coeur, Comme il pleut sur la ville_. (It rains in my heart as it rains on the town)

**Jimmy**

Peter bent to pass under the yellow tape that a NYPD officer was holding up for him. Another officer stepped aside as he approached, and he saw the body. It wasn’t just a body. It was _Jimmy_ ’s body. He had been told the CI had been shot, but actually seeing his body was a different matter.

Jimmy was lying on his back, on the dirty sidewalk, a single dark hole right in the middle of the forehead. A large pool of dark and thick blood was spreading around him. Peter clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt. And because that was still not enough to contain his pain and his rage, he clenched his fists very hard, too.

Someone gave Peter a pat on the shoulder, making him start.

“You knew that guy, Burke?”

It was Wilson, from the 12th precinct. Peter had met him a couple times before. He nodded.

“You look a little pale,” the officer noted. “Don’t tell me it’s your first body.” Tact wasn’t exactly his forte.

Peter took a deep breath. “This is the first one I knew,” he said between his teeth.

“Jimmy Burger?”

“He was a CI of mine.”

“Ah, I see,” Wilson said laconically. But clearly he didn’t. “CIs…” he said shaking his head. “Here’s a bit of a friendly advice for you, kid, don’t get too close to criminals. They’ll always be criminals, and it’s just a matter of time before they meet their fate. I can’t say I’m surprised to see Jimmy here. Sad though, he wasn’t a bad kid…”

Peter stopped listening. He turned around slowly and walked away, passing underneath the yellow tape, the pressing crowd, away from it all. He got in his car, closed the door, put his seat belt on, but didn’t start the engine. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Finally alone, he allowed the tears to flow.

The truth was, he hadn't been particularly close to Jimmy. He was just a CI among the many CIs the Bureau used. But Jimmy had helped them in a number of cases, and Peter had thought he could help him in return. If collaborating with a criminal  could help him go a little more legit, then it was worth the effort. But it appeared that didn’t help Jimmy at all. Someone didn’t appreciate him playing double agent, and put a bullet in his skull.

 

 

**Neal**

The plane exploded, and Peter jumped on Neal, just as the young man was about to run into the furnace. Neal fought with all his strength, but Peter kept his hold. He held him as he fought, as he screamed, and then he still held him when he he stopped fighting and sobbed against his shoulder, as they sat awkwardly on the tarmac. Somewhere in the distance, sirens were tearing apart the thick cold air.

Neal’s sorrow was raw, painful. He kept crying in Peter’s shoulder, clinging to him like a life buoy. Peter didn’t say anything. He knew nothing he could say would ease Neal’s pain, so he simply remained there, solid and comforting, keeping a hand on Neal’s back.

A paramedic approached, but Peter told him they were fine, and his look was eloquent enough for the paramedic to understand to leave them alone. There was nothing he could do to fix Neal’s soul. Not that there was much left to be done for Kate either.

Neal eventually stopped crying. Not because his pain was getting any less excruciating, but simply because he was too exhausted. When the Marshals arrived at the scene, Peter had no badge to flash to hold them away. He gently forced Neal to get up to his feet, and stood between him and the Marshals. But Neal put a hand on his shoulder and, without a word, walk to the officer, hands out to be cuffed.

“Neal,” Peter called, ready to follow him to the Marshal’s car.

But Neal shook his head and he sent Peter a quick look before walking away mechanically. That look, that used to be so bright, full of mischief or excitement, that look wasn’t even full of grief, nor anger. No, that look was just empty. Because nothing mattered anymore. Neal had lost his reason to live. If Peter wasn’t sure how sincere were Kate’s feelings for Neal, there was no doubt Neal’s had been deep. Peter saw it in that empty gaze, and it felt like a punch in the gut. Neal had just lost his everything, his Elizabeth. Kate was his one, but now she was no more.

That was just too much to handle.

Peter tightly clenched his jaw and held his breath, waiting for the car to pull away before allowing himself to let go. Standing alone on the edge of the tarmac, Peter let the tears flow. They were bitter and cold. He mentally made to Neal the promise that they would find who was behind Kate’s death, and they would make them pay. But he knew it wouldn’t fix anything for Neal. Kate was gone, and nothing would bring her back.

 

 

**Elizabeth**

He could feel the poison flowing in his veins, making his heart going abnormally fast, his body temperature rising, making him sweat. His breathing had become harsh and hollow. He had to consciously make the effort to breath.

“How much time, Kent?” Peter repeated.

“Fifteen minutes,” Kent finally admitted, confessing at the same time the murder of Joseph Hayes.

In other circumstances, Peter would have had enjoyed the victory. But not now. Because now, they had been poisoned too and they were going to die, unless Peter called for help very fast. Stupid companies and their paranoia, making everyone leave their cellphones at the desk in the lobby. Peter had to cross the room to get to Kent’s office phone, on his desk. Peter pushed himself up. His body was hurting and his moves were getting clumsy, ill-coordinated. His head was dangerously spinning. He managed to get to his feet, but he stumbled and crashed on the carpet.

He had to get back to his feet, he had to reach the phone. Every passing second was getting them closer to the irrevocable. Peter could feel it in his flesh and bones, and in his racing heart, he was _dying_.

But his body wasn’t responding, and Peter remained lying, helpless, on the floor of this foreign room, in this fancy building.

Of all the ways he had imagined dying on the field – and carefully avoided meeting them – none was as stupid as being poisoned by someone else’s Armagnac. He was going to die, slowly and painfully, without the chance to see Elizabeth one last time.

His heart was hurting, and it wasn’t simply the effect of the poison. He would not see Elizabeth again. And she wouldn’t see him either, until he was a lifeless and too-still shell of himself,  dead, in a coffin. Peter’s heart shattered in millions of pieces and he let go a painful sob, picturing Elizabeth having to identify his body in a too brightly lit morgue. He couldn’t do that Elizabeth. She would be devastated, inconsolable. And the idea that he would not be there to comfort her was unbearable. The pain in his chest was agonizing.

He could see her face, beautiful, radiant. She was smiling softly at him. Was she there with him? Peter blinked. Everything was getting dark. Everything but Elizabeth’s deep blue eyes, looking lovingly at him.

Despite his will, he was drifting into the darkness, drifting away from El, into oblivion. He had one last thought for his beloved wife, telling her how sorry he was for abandoning her, for breaking the promise that he’d stay by her side forever, and sending her the infinity of his love.

And suddenly Neal was there.

Everything would be all right. Neal would save them, and Peter would see Elizabeth again, and he would tell her how much he loved her.

But first, they had to save Kent, too.

 

 

**Elizabeth, once again**

He was about to turn the knob, but stopped short, hesitant, in front of the door. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. This was his last chance, his last hope. If Mozzie wasn’t there, it’d mean he had left the city. For a moment, Peter was afraid to look inside. He wanted to hold on to that hope, that Mozzie was here, just behind this door. This was the last of his safe houses, but at least, it would all work out in the end. They would give Keller the treasure and Keller would let Elizabeth go.

Peter took a deep breath, and with a sweaty hand, he finally opened the door. But the moment he glanced inside, he knew. Sunday was empty. Like all other six of Mozzie’s safe houses. it was empty. Mozzie was gone.  So was the treasure. It was all gone.

Peter ran frantically around the small apartment. Forgetting all his Quantico training, he rushed into all the rooms, smashing open the doors, calling for Mozzie, turning around, checking the same rooms again and again. The place was empty.

Peter finally stopped and just stood there, unable to make another move. His breathing was harsh and hollow. He felt a cold drop of sweat running down his spine. His heart missed a beat and his vision got blurry. He blinked.

“Mozzie!”

It was pointless, but he refused to believe what his senses were telling him. Mozzie had to be there. He had to. It was their only chance, his only choice to get Elizabeth back safe and sound. Mozzie had to be here.

The room started spinning. Gasping for air, Peter leaned on the closest wall and slid to the floor. He closed his eyes and held his head into his hands. His heart was aching, his head was burning, and his mind was paralyzed.

Images of Keller’s cruel smile and Elizabeth’s soft gaze danced around and mixed behind his eyelids. He felt sick. He clenched his jaw very hard to stop it from shattering. His whole body was shaking as he tried not to think of what a cold blood killer could do to his wife.

If anything were to happen to her, he would never forgive himself.

 

 

**Mom, Dad**

After waiting in line for what seemed hours, Peter was finally directed to a phone booth. He picked up the handset and dialed Elizabeth’s number – his home number. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. Talking to her was making him both anxious and relieved. He hated that situation. The absence of privacy, between the other inmates and the guards equally breathing down his neck, it wasn’t easy to share his intimate feelings with his wife.

“Hi Hon,” Elizabeth’s voice greeted him. She sounded joyful, though Peter could feel it was an act for him. They were both playing the game of being strong and positive, while all they really wanted was to cry in each other’s arms.

“Hi, Hon,” Peter echoed.

Facing the concrete wall, his elbow resting on the booth and his arm raised against his ear, he tried to create at least an illusion of privacy, trying to ignore the feeling of all those eyes staring at his back.

“How do you feel?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’m good,” Peter lied. He knew she wasn’t fooled, but what else could he say without making her a little more upset, which would in turn make him just a little more guilty and miserable? “I miss you.” That, at least, was true.

“I miss you too,” she said in a small voice. “Look, Peter, your parents are here, they’d like to talk to you.”

Peter’s heart missed a beat, and then started racing hard against his ribcage. He didn’t want to talk to his parents. He wasn’t sure he could handle it. Actually, he was sure he could not handle it. Hearing El’s voice, distanced by the phone, reminding him of the raw truth of his situation – him, inside, out of time; her, all of them, outside, without him – was already hardly bearable.

As he remained silent, Elizabeth spoke again, gently. “It’ll do them some good, Peter. Talk to them.”

“Okay.”

He heard muffled sounds and then his mum’s voice. “Hello, Peter.”

“Hi, Mom,” Peter said in a croaky voice.

“How are you?” her voice was unsteady, and Peter pictured her, holding on to the handset of his home phone with both hands, on the brink of tears, as his dad was probably rubbing her back.

“I’m fine,” Peter said. “Don’t worry, mom. I’ll get out of here. My team is working on it. I’ll be home soon.”

His voice broke and he bit his lips. He leaned his forehead against the cold concrete, and closed his eyes. The wall he had built not to break in front of Elizabeth, the wall he had built to face the guard handing him his jumpsuit and asking him to take off all his clothes, the wall he had reinforced against the snarky and hurtful remarks of all those criminals, now his fellow inmates, this wall finally broke, and tears flew down his eyes, along his cheeks, down to his neck, heavy and thick. This was too much for him. He couldn’t stand hearing the distress of his parents. He couldn’t stand the idea he was the cause of their pain, everyone’s pain.

Peter clenched his teeth, too aware of the eyes on his back, careful not to show any outside sign of weakness, his body remaining still while the tear flew down his eyes.

It was his dad on the phone now. “You hold on in there, son.”

He had to clear his throat to go on. “Thanks, dad. You too, you hold on. And don’t worry about me. I’ll fix this. I promise.”

 

 

**David**

The thunder rolled and echoed against the New York buildings, making it sound like a long roar. It was going to be a serious storm, and Peter had a thought for all the people working outside.

His phone rang and Peter picked it up, hoping that whatever it was, it wouldn’t require him to be out in the rain that was starting, heavy drops smashing against the windows of his office.

He wasn’t prepared for this. His heart sank abruptly in his chest and for a second he thought it had stopped beating.

David Siegel’s body was found on a street in Brooklyn.

Peter staggered his way out of his office.

As he was about to leave, he caught Neal coming in. He sent him a look, and his friend just followed him.

“They’ve found David’s body,” Peter finally managed to say, his voice hollow and foreign, as they got to the parking garage.

The rain was now falling hard and thick, like tears falling from the sky.

They got out of the car and walked to the address Peter had been given. He was holding onto his umbrella, as if it could have supported him. His grip on the handle was so strong that it hurt. But he didn’t feel the pain. It was overwhelmed by the physical pain in his chest, his heart, his soul.

David’s body was lying there, on an anonymous sidewalk, like any random body. His agent, David Siegel, that he had just recruited, who was still looking for an apartment, who had barely the chance to start his new life in New York, who was so young and so full of promises, David Siegel was there, dead, a hole in his chest, the rain already washing away the blood, the ruined life.

“Initial report is a mugging gone wrong,”  Peter said.

Could it really be that random? That stupidly simple? Wouldn’t David had been able to defend himself?

“No known acquaintances in the area,” Peter quoted in a hollow voice. None of this made sense. And yet it had happened. “We're not sure why he was here. Think he was looking for an apartment?”

“He was, but not here,” Neal whispered.

Peter couldn’t take his eyes of David’s body. His vision was getting blurry. He swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep breath, but that wasn’t enough to hold the tears back.

“We’ll find out who did this, Neal. I promise,” he said, looking away.

He wasn’t really talking to Neal. But it felt less weird than talking to a dead body. Or maybe it was just easier. But in his heart, Peter knew he’d hold onto his promise for David, and he wouldn’t find peace until he’d bring the culprit to Justice.

It was raining on the town like it was raining in his heart. He closed his umbrella and let the rain wash over him, drops mixing with his tears.

 

 

**Neal, once again**

Peter walked to the balcony where Neal was leaning on the balustrade, looking at the skyline.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Neal turned his head. “Hey.”

“I was wondering where you were. The party downstairs is missing its principal honoree.”

Neal chuckled. “You can’t help yourself. You always know where to find me.”

Peter grinned. “This one wasn’t much of a challenge.”

He crossed his arms on the stone rail and leaned next to Neal. They looked at the city below in a companionable silent.

“What are you thinking about?” Peter finally asked.

“I couldn’t wait to get rid of it, and now I realize I’m going to miss all of this,” Neal said looking straight in front of him.

Peter glanced at him. “You know you can still get your desk back, if you want to. You’ll always be welcome in the division.”

“I haven’t said no, Peter. I just need to get away a little. Feel _free_ again, you know?”

Peter nodded. He understood, of course. And yet he sure wasn’t looking forward to going to work next Monday without Neal. It just wouldn’t be the same anymore.

“I’m going to miss it too,” he said.

“I’ve done a lot of mistakes in my life,” Neal said softly, still looking at the city ahead. “Some that I sincerely regret. There are lots of things that I wish I didn’t do. But asking you to sign that deal definitely isn’t one of those things.”

Peter looked at Neal, who suddenly turned to him and the intensity of his deep blue eyes caught Peter off guard. He felt caught at the throat, and tears inexplicably rose to his eyes.

“Peter, are you crying?”

Peter shook his head vigorously and swept the tears with the back of his sleeve. “No, I’m not.”

By Neal’s look sparkling with amusement, he knew he wasn’t convincing at all.

“Are you going to miss me that much?” Neal asked, and behind the teasing, Peter could tell he was more touched than he let on.

“I guess I am,” he said with a fond smile.

He bit his lips, hesitating an instant, and threw himself at Neal, hugging him strongly.

“I’m so proud of you.”

And he could feel the tears falling down his eyes.

 

 

 

The End.

 


End file.
